


stay with me, hold my hand (there's no need to be brave)

by lesbianettes



Category: Chicago Med
Genre: (owen doesn't exist and Natalie wasn't in a car accident), 1st person pov, 5.01 fixit fic, Canon Divergent, F/F, Grief, Implied/Mentioned Rape, Implied/Mentioned Suicide, Kinda, Mutual Pining, Non Graphic Rape Mention, Tenderness, canon compliant character death, established Ava/Natalie, implied PTSD, implied depression, implied mental health issues, semi-graphic suicide mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 01:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20826908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianettes/pseuds/lesbianettes
Summary: After Ava dies, Natalie needs to find out what happened to her.(First person POV)





	stay with me, hold my hand (there's no need to be brave)

**Author's Note:**

> Thought it was time for one of those really long oneshots that hits you in the feels! I'm proud of this so I hope y'all enjoy
> 
> Title from "I Will" by Mitski

On that first night, Ava came home and threw up in the kitchen sink. She didn’t take off her shoes or her coat, she didn’t say hello, and she didn’t tell me she loved me. Instead, she went straight to the kitchen and gagged until her stomach was empty, and then the tears started. By then I was nearby enough to open my arms and let her fall into them and cry. Slow at first, tear tracks down her cheeks and cutting into her jawline. But soon she was full on sobbing against my shoulder, whole body shaking with the force of it, and her breath coming in desperate choking gasps, and I didn’t know what to do about it. She still had on one of her formal dresses. It was a work function she was invited to but I wasn’t, and it didn’t hurt when she left but it certainly did when she came back. 

“What happened?”

She shook her head at me, and when she met my eyes, there was mascara staining her face and the beginnings of a bruise on the side of her neck- one I certainly didn’t leave. That was when I knew something really bad had to have happened, but I didn’t want to ask because, if I’m honest with myself, I didn’t want to know. It was easier to pretend. She probably didn’t have that option, because whatever happened was real and inescapable for her. Later, much later, I would find answers. But I hadn’t yet, and I wasn’t looking for them. Ava Bekker was a strong and beautiful woman. Some called her arrogant, narcissistic, cold. That wasn’t who she was, only the mask that people saw when she refused to give in to her colleagues who usually thought they knew better than her. It was hard for her to get as far as she did. I was proud of her, am proud of her, and I just wish that before things ended, other people got to see the same Ava that I did and do. 

That first night was the beginning of the end for her. At the time, I didn’t know that. She couldn’t sleep that night, but I did, and she told me in the morning that she spent hours with her eyes open and her arms around me because I made her feel safe. Still, she didn’t tell me what had happened to her, and took a long shower that had steam creeping out from under the door. I noticed, as she got ready, that she had thrown away the dress she wore that night. It was balled up angrily, sitting at the top of the nearly full trash can. Again, it was something I should have asked about, but instead I changed the bag and brought the old one down to the dumpster out of some misguided hope it would help her. Forgetting can be healing, I’ve learned. I wouldn’t say I’ve forgotten my husband, but the less I think about him, the less it hurts. I can’t grieve for someone who never crosses my mind.

By the time I was ready for work, Ava was dressed and had her hair down loose around her shoulders instead of in a braid or ponytail. It was to cover the mark, I knew, because she didn’t have it in her to cover it with layers of concealer and powder. She had the same habit when I left hickeys, although I rarely did because we both understood the calls of our jobs and the optics of it. I didn't comment on the hairstyle. Neither did she. But she smiled at me and tilted her chin up for me to kiss her, knowing I could never resist her. I've never been able to. Not since I met her, or the day she told me I was beautiful and took me to dinner, or when she kissed me the first time. Sometimes I still dream about her kisses.

We left together- I drove, she played the radio loud. Usually, she would sing along, but she didn’t this time. Instead, she rested her temple against the cold window and watched the streets and buildings drag by. I put my hand on her leg and she offered me a thin smile. It didn’t feel right, but still I didn’t push her for the details of the night before. Even when she got out of the car and stared up at the hospital with her face set. Bags under her eyes, a quiver to her bottom lip. I reached for her, and for a moment she held my hand, but then she was running in to head up to her floor. By the time I made it into the ED, she had already begun to ascend via elevator. I didn’t mind too much because it’s not like we wouldn’t eat lunch or go home together. And we’re both busy women.

“You okay, Nat?” 

I smiled at Maggie, and I guess it looked something like Ava’s smile did. “I’m fine,” I told her. 

Whether or not she believed me, I’m not sure. Either way, she let it go and I did my job like I always do. I don’t remember anything else from that day, to be honest. But I do know that it was the start of all this, when Ava went to that work thing I still don’t know the purpose of, and she came back different. Much, much later, I learned what really happened. 

Things were calm, if strange from that point on. Months rolled around and Ava came home to me every day, slept poorly, and kissed me like she was forgetting how long it had been since last time. During that whole time, we didn’t have sex. And I’m not complaining about that; I get that it wasn’t because of me, but because of her. She went through something traumatic, and it was the first domino, and there are nights I lie awake mulling over if she would still be here, had I done more for her. Maybe it’s not healthy. But I wonder. 

The next thing that happened was a long while down the line. Just the same, I saw it on her face the moment she met me at our car in the parking lot. Something happened. I didn’t know what it was right away, and I didn’t want to force her into talking. We went home quiet, and as I cooked she cracked open one of her nice bottles of wine that she usually saved for date night. I have to imagine that if we had something stronger, it would be down her throat that day too. Instead of asking, I let her drink, and when we ate, she opened up to me for the first time about what was hurting her.

“Connor thinks I tried to kill his father,” she said. Heavy voice. Thick with pain. Her eyes were locked onto her dinner, which she played with as opposed to eating. “When I operated on him during the shooting. Apparently his heart is still bad, so- so Connor asked me if I purposefully did a bad job. His face- he thinks I tried to kill his father. He actually thinks that.”

“But you didn’t.”

She looked up at me and I knew she heard what I didn’t say. The question.  _ Did you? _ I want to say I never even considered the possibility, but since the night she came home different, there were moments like these where I wasn’t sure that I knew her as well as I used to. There was something different about her. I was worried. But I didn’t ask, and I didn’t inform, and when dinner was over she asked me to join her in the shower for much missed intimacy of the best kind.

I missed seeing her whole, something I hadn’t realized. There was no physical boundary between us, and she allowed me to touch her in some of the ways I hadn’t lately. Her hands were familiar and soft, and she was tender with me as she washed the day from my body and pulled me closer. I shampooed her hair and when we kissed, it felt like starting over. Everything I had been missing lately was replaced, if only for the duration of our shower. Her smile was real again, and I kissed her like I hadn’t lately. It felt real. She held me close, kissed me hard, touched me gentle. Under warm water and fragranced with soap, I almost forgot what happened, and I think for a moment, that Ava did too. 

It was good, it felt good, and when we dried off after to climb into bed, I thought she may be finally recovering from what we never spoke about. But of course, after a mere hour of sleep, I woke up to her screaming. Over and over, she cried no, and when I shook her awake she cried in my arms until the sun rose. Then, at the rousing alarm, she did not get out of bed. Instead, she asked me if I would tell Dr. Latham that she’s sick and won’t make it to work. I knew she wasn’t sick- not physically, anyway- but I agreed and kissed her forehead before I left. Her bare feet, peeking out from under the covers, were dry and cracked on the soles although I knew part of her nightly routine was to moisturize because it helped her avoid blisters. And Ava, she cared about little things like the skin on her feet and the back of her ears, which were just as prone to getting dry. This was not a one-night lapse. I knelt, then, at the end of the bed, and pulled out her favorite lotion. It was high-end and smelled like roses. I never cared for it myself, but she liked it. She didn’t so much as twitch as I rubbed it in. But I wanted so badly for her to know that I still cared, and she was still worth loving and taking care of.

When I went to work, I didn’t talk to Connor. I knew he’d have his version of things, an explanation for what he accused Ava of, but I didn’t want to hear it. There was a part of me that did fear Ava had done something I could have never pictured her doing before what happened to her, and I didn’t want to hear from someone who believed her to be capable of doing such grievous harm. That isn’t the sort of person she was. At least, not at that point. Connor had to know why she wasn’t at work; he knew what he said, and what he thought she did, and he must have seen me come in with my empty passenger seat. But he didn’t approach me either. That was fine with me. I should’ve spoken to him.

Afterwards, I picked up Ava’s favorite takeout and set it on the kitchen counter before going to see if she was still laid up in bed. She wasn’t. The shower was on again, and when I went into the bathroom, she was sitting at the bottom of the tub with hot water clinging to her, and in her eyes, she was a different person. Like I was approaching a feral animal, I crept forward with my hand out to her. Again, I have to admit that deep down, I was afraid of her despite knowing I shouldn’t have been. 

“Ava,” I said.

She didn’t answer me.

I turned off the water and wrapped her in a soft towel, carried her to bed and brought food. She was hurting in a way I wasn’t trained to fix, and I’ll always regret not looking for someone who could. Even as I coaxed her into eating dinner, she didn’t say a word to me. I realized that things may have been getting out of hand, but still, I didn’t help her. Instead, I tucked her in and brushed her hair, told her I loved her as the sun set.

The next morning, she was better, I thought. She got up and dressed herself, acted normal without regard to the day before where she had become a statue of marble. It could have been over, but somehow, I knew it wasn’t. It was too fast after how slowly she’d crashed and burned. When she was making coffee, she burned her hand. We both laughed it off as I bandaged her palm and told her to be careful. It wasn’t normal, though, because Ava was always so careful and meticulous in everything she did. And her eyes… her eyes were empty when she met mine. Frankly, I was frightened. She didn’t kiss me. She took a cab to work instead of driving with me. 

I didn’t see her at all on the job, although I did hear about the faulty valve that was in Mr. Rhodes’ chest- unequivocal proof that Ava didn’t do anything wrong. Guilt washed over me at ever questioning her commitment to her patients, and I’m sure the same went for Connor. As far as I know, he didn’t apologize. And at home that night, Ava didn’t make mention of anything out of the ordinary.

Things seemed normal again for a while after. She had a handful of bad days that I covered for, but for the most part, she seemed alright. Then she got hurt in surgery, and I remember crying in the doctor’s lounge because it just wasn’t like her. It was in surgery for an HIV+ patient, no less. A fear I’d long since avoided sprung back of what that could mean, and as she took the case of anti-retros, she was different again. Withdrawn. I often caught her writing in the little journal with roses on it that she used to use to record all of her surgeries. She took notes because it helped her learn from her work, she told me one night early into our relationship. Somehow, however, I knew that wasn’t what this was. She wrote frantically instead of neat, and she was religious about putting it in the bottom drawer of her nightstand and locking it with a silver key I didn’t have a copy of.

Looking back, I should’ve talked to Connor, or even Dr. Latham, at the time. Anyone who could help because I was possibly the only person who saw her falling apart.

The night before Connor’s father died, Ava was calm. Laying in bed, her cheek pressed to my stomach, she traced circles over my hip as I stroked her hair. It wasn’t as soft as usual because she didn’t wash it as often. But I didn’t say anything, and my restless fingers built and pulled down braids over and over. She was warm, almost lethargic. 

“You seem tired,” I whispered.

“I’m not,” she answered. “I’m awake.”

Her voice was a little patchy and off-beat. I should’ve known something was really, really wrong by then, but I still wanted to believe everything was fine. For what would be the last time, I held her and she kissed up and down my hip. We didn’t get further than that, and it was okay because I felt we had all the time in the world. There was finality, but also hope, in between our sheets. Her eyes, so open and free, traced over me like she was trying to memorize me. I didn’t ask why, but I held her hand and told her I’d always love her.

The next day, Connor’s father died of an insulin overdose. I didn’t think for a moment that it could have been Ava, but then. Then. The morning after, Connor was yelling at her, his hand dug into her arm so hard that I saw the pain on her face she was often talented at hiding. Afterward, when she came to me, I rolled up her sleeve and saw the little red marks turning purple. Had this happened to her before, I wondered, because she didn’t seem concerned by it. As a matter of fact, she was stroking her fingers over the bruise when she walked away with an almost dazed look on her face. I heard later that she filed an HR complaint about it. There was never an investigation because a handful of hours later, she was dead.

I didn’t see her die. I didn’t hear about it until much later. It was way past her shift ending and I just couldn’t find her. I thought she might’ve gone home, but she wasn’t answering her phone no matter how many times I called. Before I left, I dragged myself to see Dr. Latham, needing to know if she had left. Some people say they can sense it when a loved one is dead, but I didn’t. I didn’t want to, perhaps. All I knew was that she was upset and missing, and if she was at home sitting at the bottom of the shower, I needed to know so I could pick up her favorite ice cream on my way.

But he didn’t have to tell me. He hesitated when I asked, looked down, opened his mouth and shut it again. Something bad happened. I may have started crying, or I may have left with my face dry. I don’t remember. Everything was a blur and I just knew I had to find her. My feet carried me to the morgue and she was there, on one of the steel tables. She was so pale. A deep gash trailed across the middle of her neck, and her chest was still open. I definitely lost it then. Sobbing, on my knees, shaking. Somebody put a shock blanket on my shoulders and brought me to the ER, told me to take a few deep breaths and that I would be checked on.

I don’t know how long I sat there. But I remember who came to see me. Ava’s blood was still on his hands and his shirt, although it was in the process of drying. There was this look on his face. Guilt. Sadness. He had no right to feel that way. 

Again, things blurred. The next thing I was aware of was April holding me and a bag of ice on my purple hand, Connor in a bay on the other side of the nursing station with Will tending to his face. I guess I hit him. He deserved it. I thought he was the one who killed her. In a way, he was, no matter what really happened in that room. I left the hospital with a splint on my wrist.

Goodwin gave me a week off to cope, and for that week, I refused to believe the story that Dr. Latham and the surgical assistants and the well-wishers told me. Ava killed Connor’s father, and when she realized she’d been caught, she slit her own throat with a surgical scalpel. It just didn’t seem like her, to kill someone and then herself. I didn’t understand, even as I read her eulogy in the thin-papered bundle of news dropped on our porch. She used to read the newspaper on the weekends. Mostly for the comics, but also for the stories because she liked seeing the little good local things beyond the pain of the world’s stage.

Half-way through my mandatory vacation, I broke into the bottom drawer of Ava’s nightstand. It still felt like a violation of her privacy, but I just had to know what happened to her and why this happened. Whether she killed herself, or Connor did, I needed to know why.

As expected, the beginning of her journal was descriptions of patients and surgeries. Meticulous notes down to the thread size of the stitches, the serial number of implants, the amount of time on bypass. Most of it went over my head, I’ll admit, but I knew enough to know it was just an account of the surgery. She was a fantastic surgeon. And as I flipped through them, I found her record of Mr. Rhodes’ first surgery. Everything was noted neatly, but the serial number of the valve was circled in a different color. That must’ve been when she discovered the faulty valve. There was nothing else out of the ordinary on that page, or any of the other notes I looked at until I reached where her surgical accounts turned to messy scribbles and less organized thoughts. Some pages had dates, some didn’t. But they were unified in their subject.

Every personal passage in her notebook was about Connor. I didn’t understand, and reading them didn’t help. They talked about his schedule and his attitudes, about the way he talked to her and the way he talked to others, about the accusations he made over and over again. Most of them, I had no idea about. When she hurt her hand, he accused her of doing it purposefully. He accused her of manipulating higher ups in the hospital. He accused her of sleeping with his father. And that last one burned, because beneath it she told the truth about what happened to her at the very beginning of all of this. She just wanted Connor to stay at Med because she thought he was her friend, and in quietly seeking the funds from his father, something bad happened to her. She wrote that she said no, and she cried, but it didn’t help her. I understood, after reading it, why she must have been so hurt from that accusation in particular.

It helped me start to come to terms with her death and her pain, but all the same, I still didn’t believe she would’ve killed herself, and the next suspect was Connor. He was the one in the room with her, and he had hurt her earlier that same day, and according to Ava’s notes, he hated her. Really hated her. Did he hate her enough to kill her, especially if it’s true that she admitted to killing his father?

Suddenly it hit me why she would have killed him. That son of a bitch raped her, and she had tried to save his life anyway, only for Connor to make baseless accusations against her. I don’t know that I would’ve killed someone, but I don’t blame her for it. Of course, her notes follow up with everything, neat and precise. She recorded the exact amount of insulin she gave him, and when, and what batch she pulled it from. This evidence could have been used to convict her- although I suppose that’s why she kept it locked up from even me. I wouldn’t be able to testify against her if I didn’t know anything. The admission hurt, though, because I couldn’t just pretend it was baseless. This time, what Connor said was true. But not the others. And it furthered my suspicion that he did something because he had the motives and the means, and afterward, he even supposedly tried to save her. 

My first instinct was to bring the journal to the police. It would prove that Ava was a murderer, but it would also put on record what happened to her, and maybe spark an investigation for that or for her death. Beyond that, it was the right thing to do. But these were her private thoughts, and even reading them myself was wrong, let alone giving them to strangers who would use this to burn down her memory without caring to learn why.

I didn’t call Will, because he’d get his brother. I didn’t call Connor, because I thought it was his fault. I didn’t call Goodwin or Dr. Charles or April or Ethan because I just knew that they would want me to turn in the journal, and that wasn’t what I wanted or needed to hear. So I called Maggie. She always had my back, and I trusted her. Like always, she picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Natalie, it’s good to hear from you. How’re you doing?”

“Are you busy?”

Talking about this over the phone seemed too impersonal. And I’ll admit, I craved someone near me to replace the coldness I’d been feeling since I lost Ava. Maggie, I knew, would not pity me or treat me like I’m fragile, but instead, she’d help me like she always has.

“No, why?”

“Can you come over? Just for a little bit?”

“I’m on my way. I’ll bring ice cream.”

I didn’t get the chance to thank her, but at least she would be here soon and I wouldn’t have to deal with this alone. There was a chance she’d disagree with me, think I was overreacting and see something that indicated Ava actually having killed herself. But at least then, I’d know more than I did. I just wanted to understand what happened.

Less than an hour later, she knocked on my front door with two quarts of ice cream under her arm. One mint moose tracks, one cookie dough- we’d be able to eat together. I realized I should’ve checked on her too, because it wasn’t like I was the only one who knew Ava. Before I could, she gave me one of her knowing smiles and told me she missed seeing me around. I was forgiven before I even apologized.

We sat down on the couch together, after I got us two huge spoons, and I leaned against her as I took a moment to savor the mint and the chocolate and the good things I hadn’t had for a while. The pain allowed me the reprieve for a little time, but soon it came back, and I set down my treat to pick up Ava’s journal.

“They said she killed herself,” I whispered. Maggie knew already. “But I- I don’t think she did.”

I handed her the journal, a torn receipt marking the place where the personal notes overtook the professional.

“She did admit that she killed Connor’s father. But there’s more to it, and- and the day she died, Connor was yelling at her and he grabbed her arm so hard it left a bruise.”

Maggie turned one of the pages. Scanned it. “You think Connor killed her.”

“I don’t think she killed herself, and he was the only other person in the room with her.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

I shook my head. My hair felt too long, sticking to my cheek. “I don’t know if they’d believe me. And they’d probably focus on her confession, but I trust you.”

We ate more ice cream in silence while Maggie read through everything. What happened to Ava, what Connor did. None of it detailed the things I saw, though, like Ava’s slow decline. It was frantic, for the most part. And I still didn’t understand why she was so focused on Connor for it. That was a question for someone like Dr. Charles. I didn’t trust him. Later, I wound up asking Sarah about it.

When she reached the end, Maggie set down the journal, closed and the bookmark tucked neatly into place, and looked at me with her lips pressed together. I almost asked if she thought I was crazy, but then she put her ice cream aside too and took my hands in hers, calloused and protective. “I can’t tell you what happened to Ava, and I can’t tell you whether or not to give this to the police. But if you do think Connor killed her, you need to tell someone who can investigate. Trying to do this yourself is messy, and besides, Connor…”

“Connor what?”

“He left. The same night Ava died, he took some job offer out of state. He only said goodbye to Dr. Latham and Mrs. Goodwin, she told us the next morning.”

My mouth went dry. If he killed her, and then he left, I couldn’t look into it myself, and I wasn’t ready to share Ava’s journal with the police. Hoping it wasn’t true, I searched Maggie’s face, and I found nothing to indicate otherwise. Connor was gone. 

I started crying, light but warm like spring rain, and Maggie held me as I did without attempting to soothe me. She just held me. I must’ve fallen asleep, because I woke up tucked into bed the next day, with Ava’s journal, a glass of water, and a sticky note telling me to call whenever resting on my nightstand.

I laid around that day, feeling sorry for myself and finishing my ice cream, but come evening I sat at the breakfast bar with a fresh notepad in front of me. Ava had a lot of them that she liked to use for grocery lists or to-dos for the weekend. Connor’s number was pulled up on my phone, my thumb hovering over the call button. I wanted to talk to him. I also didn’t. A voice in the back of my head reminded me that I could still go to the police. 

It was a bad idea, but I wanted answers, and I called him.

After a handful of rings, he answered.

“Natalie, I-”

“I know you did it.” My voice shook. My eyes burned. “I know you killed Ava.”

“What? No, I-”

I told him everything I knew. I knew about his accusations and the way he treated Ava and how he was getting even because she gave his father what he deserved. I knew that she would never have killed herself, especially like that, and he was the only one in the room with her, and the one who conveniently called for help. I knew he ran away with his guilty conscience. And then, I hung up. 

Hearing him try to defend himself just wasn’t something I could handle, and telling him I knew lifted a weight off my chest. Since I’d be returning to work soon, starting to dull the pain was a necessary step. My patients, they needed me even if I was grieving and alone. Connor called me back, but I sent him to voicemail and blocked his number. 

Alone in the silent apartment, I dug into the closet for a pair of Ava’s scrubs, her coat ruined with blood. They still smelled like her favorite perfume, and her name was embroidered with care, and when I fell into bed with it, I felt a little less alone. She was gone, but in some ways, she was still here. I didn’t talk to her, or anything strange like that, but I got the sense I was still holding her, and I wished I could still comb my fingers through her hair and tell her she was beautiful.

There wasn’t ever a formal funeral. I let them cremate her body, and although I meant to spread her ashes, they still rest atop the mantle in a stunning marble urn. I talk to it sometimes, but not often. Not long after I returned to work, there was an announcement that a contamination in the insulin let them trace it back to Ava, and she was retroactively charged with murder. There was no trial, but there was closure mailed to Connor and his sister. I didn’t get closure for Ava. I still didn’t know for sure if Connor killed her or if she killed herself, and I didn't entirely want to know.

A few months came and went, and I did not heal. I never spread her ashes, nor did I find an explanation for her death or show her journal to anyone other than Maggie. I was stuck. I didn’t have closure, and I didn’t want it for fear of what it would be. For weeks on end, I was going through the motions without really living. I ate, I showered, I slept, I worked. But I wasn’t me. I was something like Ava had been, and when I realized that, it frightened me.

Curled up in bed with her scrubs, ones I kept washing and spraying with her perfume, the world felt too small and I was choking on thin air. I wanted to do something. I wanted to feel something. I don’t know where the idea came from, but I walked to the store, bought a razor, and stood over my bathroom sink with it buzzing in my hand. Vibrations ran down my arm and, in the mirror, I seemed dead already. Dark bruises circled my eyes, and my face was rounder than I remembered from when I used to actually look at myself in the mirror. I looked down at myself, and I was softer than before. In the past, I might have panicked. But it didn’t matter, not just because of losing Ava, but because I was tired of being the same. For years, I looked the same, and I wanted to stop. I needed change, more than anything, to escape the stifling grief and pain and memories, even if it was just long enough to feel anything else.

My own eyes stared back at me. I looked for meaning, and I found nothing. Slowly, I raised my arm, and I swept the razor across my head once. It was uneven and loose hair collapsed into the sink, dark and separate from myself. Now, there was no turning back, and I kept going. Over and over, until all my hair was shorn close to my scalp, and when I ran my fingers through what was left, I felt skin. It was a little strange, seeing that much of my head, but it was different, and I needed different. I felt lighter. After tapping the last of the hair out of the razor and setting it aside, I cleaned out the sink into an old grocery bag. I showered to wash away the itch on the back of my neck and crawled back into bed with Ava’s clothes.

I missed her a lot. And I felt like I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did when she was alive, because I still didn’t understand why she had so much to write about Connor, nor why she would have killed herself- if that was what happened. Too many things didn’t make sense to me, and I was beginning to realize that I had to actually ask people about what they saw and heard. Dr. Latham and Connor, mostly. I could talk to Dr. Latham. He’s a good man, honest, and I knew he would tell me the truth. But I didn’t want to have to talk to speak to Connor.

Going into work the day after shaving my head, I knew that they were all looking at me differently. In their eyes, I had cracked. It was the furthest thing from the truth, and I ignored the inquisitive stares as I looked after my patients. The day went by fast, and by the end of it, I nearly missed the chance to speak to Dr. Latham before he went home. I caught him barely, stopping him in the hallway after he hung up his white coat. 

“Can I talk to you about Ava?”

His body stiffened and his eyes cast away. It had been a long time already, and he was one of the few who tried to save her but eventually gave up. At least he didn’t leave. Instead, he conceded and asked me if I’d rather do it sitting down, or over coffee. A note of comfort I craved, but not from him. I didn’t want to, but I said yes to at least having a seat in the hospital cafeteria so I wouldn’t have to stand in the middle of the hallway for however long it took. He led the way, got me a cup of water and interlocked his fingers atop the white table. He had surgeon hands like Ava. Capable and soft, slender, particular. I looked away from them because it made my heart beat wrong.

“You said you want to talk about Dr. Bekker?”

I know it’s what most called her, what’s demanded in a profession like this, but hearing her title and not her name burned me like a hot stove. “Yeah. I um, I know it’s been a long time, but I’m still looking for closure, I guess.”

“I figured you might want to talk to me eventually. Losing someone you care very deeply about isn’t easy, especially when it’s as sudden as Dr. Bekker’s death.”

Again, he called her by her title. I hated it. But I didn’t correct him, because I was selfish and wanted to hold onto the intimacy of her first name and the way it felt on the tip of my tongue when we used to lay together late at night. Dr. Bekker belonged to the world, but Ava belonged to me.

I offered him a tight smile. “I just have some questions, is all.”

“Ask away.”

“Leading up to her death,” I started, skating my fingers over the table for something to do with my energy, “did you notice anything unusual? Like how she was acting, or how her surgeries went?”

He thought about it for a long moment. I didn’t mind the wait because I knew he was putting real thought into it, trying to find me a truthful and thorough answer. I didn’t blame him for Ava’s death because I knew he gave her the same trust and respect he did everyone, and he had tried as hard as possible to save her life without regard to anything she might have been guilty of. Unlike Connor, he was not someone with a vendetta.

“Her surgeries were impeccable as always, except for when she got hurt in surgery. I found it odd, but she said she was alright and it didn’t happen again. She and Connor argued a lot though, usually about his father. I didn’t get involved.”

“You were really close to Connor,” I said.

“I still am. I consider him one of my only friends.” 

I used to consider him a friend, too. “He was at odds with Ava a lot before his death, right? They fought, like you said, and he put his hands on her the day she died.”

“Are you suggesting that Connor had something to do with her suicide?”

I didn’t want to admit it to Dr. Latham. But I had to, because he might have known something to prove it, or even disprove it and let me put my mind at rest. I needed answers. 

“I don’t believe that she slit her own throat, Dr. Latham. All due respect, but it’s not like her. I think it was Connor.”

He looked at me strangely, like he thought I was crazy. But at least he considered the possibility for a silent moment before shifting in his seat. “I don’t think Connor is capable of murder, not like that. But I also didn’t know Dr. Bekker as well as you, and I can’t tell you whether or not she would have done that to herself. My best advice to you is to go to the police if you feel this strongly, and let them investigate. Just take care of yourself, Dr. Manning. I know it’s been a hard year for you.”

I left our conversation feeling no better. I wasn’t ready to share Ava’s history and her writing with the cops, and I didn’t trust them not to turn this on me or discredit her further in her death. Dr. Latham wasn’t much help. I didn’t want to be alone with the way I felt after talking to him, so as I drove home, I asked Maggie to come over again. She had told me I was beautiful with my hair gone, and I felt safe with her as I always have, so I knew I could rely on her to make me breathe easy again. 

She arrived with Chinese takeout, boxes stacked in a little plastic bag emblazoned with “THANK YOU” in red block letters. Neither of us were much good with chopsticks, and I didn’t want to even bother with it that night, so I grabbed a couple of forks as she arranged dinner on the coffee table. I wanted to express how much her support meant to me, but without the right words, I stayed quiet.

As soon as I sat down on the couch, I was exhausted. Even reaching for the food felt insurmountable, but I tried anyways. Before I could grab it, Maggie set a single hand on my wrist. “You’re shaking.” I looked up at her. I hadn’t realized. “What happened?”

I didn’t feel like answering, and collapsed back against the couch. I wanted to sink into it. After all this time I still had no answers. But then Maggie said my name softly, and I realized she was holding out a forkful of noodles and chicken for me. It was the sort of thing Ava would have done. I accepted the bite, but then went back to feeding myself because something had changed in that moment and I wasn’t ready for it. It felt nice, but unexpected, and we made our way through the meal without continued conversation, save for Maggie reaching out to steady me every so often because I hadn’t stopped shaking. I don’t know why.

After dinner, the tears started. It really hurt, and I had lost the only two people I had truly loved within a handful of years. My husband, and then Ava. Maggie was there, but I was afraid of what would happen if I loved her as anything more than the affection slowly growing between us. I cried, and I ached, and through it, Maggie wrapped her arms around me and told me everything would be okay. Her shoulder was warm when I rested my cheek against it, and when she offered to help me shower the day off, I told her yes.

I stood in the water for only a moment before I asked her to join me. I craved intimacy of any kind, and felt like cement dropped from my body when she stripped away her scrubs and let her hair out of its braid. It was silky soft when I helped her wash it, and her skin had moles and scars I wished for the time to learn. I recognized where she gave a kidney, and almost traced my hand over the mark. It wasn’t my place, though, and I settled for a quick glance of my palm while I washed her just as she washed me. The last time I had had a moment like this was with Ava. I didn’t know what it might mean. But for at least a little while, I chose not to think about it and enjoyed how it felt not to be alone. Maggie’s hands were broader and more careful than Ava’s, but they felt the same in the ways it mattered. 

She dried me with a bath towel, cupped my cheek and smiled at me. I led her to the bedroom and offered up some oversized clothes that used to belong to my husband, ones I thought might fit her. She thanked me and dressed. I only slid into pajama pants. 

Maggie tucked me into bed with care, making sure the covers would keep me warm and smoothing them after. She got ready to leave, but I didn’t want her to. I reached out to her with one hand, waited for her to take it.

“Stay with me?”

“Always.”

She laid with me in bed and it was the first time since Ava’s death that I shared it with anything other than her scrubs. Maggie left space between us, but I came closer until I could put my hand on her hip. Without a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped her arm around my waist and kissed my forehead.

“Why are you here?” I asked.

“Because I love you.”

I fell asleep loved.

When we woke up, we didn’t talk about what happened. But we did eat breakfast and talk like always, and went back to work to do our jobs as always. I thought about her, and I thought about Ava, and I thought about Connor. The night before was a reprieve, but I wasn’t ready to give up on finding out the truth.

Maggie smiled at me a lot that day, and I smiled back, and I must admit I felt so warm and taken care of every time. It made the day easier to get through, so by night I didn’t feel so consumed by pain. I sat down at my kitchen counter without the ache in my chest and looked at my phone, torn about whether or not I should call Connor again. It had been a long time, his number could have even changed, and he might have hung up on me or not even answered in the first place. 

I needed to know if I was ever going to move on with my life. I got Ava’s journal and looked through it again, hoping for a concrete answer, but of course there was nothing new. I had already looked over every word, and I still didn’t know for sure what happened. There was no other way to get answers.

I queued up his number and almost pressed dial. I didn’t want to hear him tell me he killed Ava, nor did I want to hear him tell me she killed herself, but if I didn’t at least try and find the truth, not only would I never forgive myself, but I’d never be able to move on with my life and do things like love Maggie how she loved me. I had to know.

When I called, it rang a handful of times before Connor answered. His voice when he said hello sounded happier than it had in the weeks before Ava’s death. He asked who it was, evidently no longer having my number saved in his contacts. I didn’t blame him.

“It’s Natalie. Manning.”

He hesitated long enough that I thought he would hang up on me.

“Hi, Natalie. How’ve you been?”

I let out a breath slow, pushed between my teeth like a whistle not yet formed. He wasn’t angry with me. That could quickly change, I realized, and I had to hurry through this. 

“I know it’s been a long time, but I still really want to talk to you about Ava. I just- I just need closure-”

“-And I was there when she died,” he finished, not filling in that I accused him of killing her. It wasn’t half as bad as some of the things he said she did. “Let’s talk, then. I’ve got about half an hour.”

That wasn’t a lot of time, but it was also too much. I worried about having the chance to say everything, as well as being able to fill the time so he couldn’t think about Ava for too long after I hung up, too busy with whatever had imposed the limitation. I nodded to myself and kicked my feet against the legs of my chair.

“Sounds good.”

I had to say everything. 

“I found this journal, that Ava wrote when she was alive,” I said. “Most of it was surgical notes, but at the end, it was all personal. And it was mostly about you.”

“She was obsessed with me.”

“That’s not true.”

He was quiet on the other end at first. Then he sighed, and I could almost picture the stupid look on his face. “I’m just going to tell you what I experienced. Ava slept with my father to manipulate me into staying in Chicago, she nearly got me fired and then saved my ass, she murdered my father, she intentionally cut herself in surgery on one of my instruments. She wanted my attention, and she did whatever it took to get it. I know it’s hard to hear, and that you loved her, but she had problems.”

“Your father raped her,” I corrected him. “She didn’t sleep with him to manipulate you. She asked him to pay for your ER because she would have missed you, and he raped her.”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“He did.”

I wanted to hang up on him. But I didn’t have any answers I wanted.

“Connor, I just need to know what happened in that room.”

I couldn’t picture her hurting herself. I still can’t. Ava applied lotion all over her body every night and counted how many times she ran her brush through her hair and used expensive detergent so it wouldn’t irritate her skin. She was so particular about herself and her body that I can never bring myself to picture her hurting herself in any way for any reason, especially not as violently as slitting her own throat. It wasn’t like her. 

“Natalie, I know you’re still grieving-”

“Tell me what happened.”

“She…” Connor’s voice went croaky. “After Dr. Latham said he figured out how to find who murdered my father, she ran to an empty OR and I followed her. She asked me to give her an hour to get to the airport, and I said no, so she picked up a scalpel. She was really upset at me, and I thought she was going to stab me with it. She kept coming closer.”

“So you hurt her first?”

“No. I didn’t. She was inches away from me, and she suddenly cut her own throat open. I did everything I could to save her, and so did Dr. Latham, and most of the surgical team. Nobody wanted her to die. I didn’t want her to die.”

He sounded so raw and honest, but I still couldn’t believe him. I couldn’t believe that Ava would do that. I’ll never be able to. But I heard his version of things, and that settled a part of me, because I knew I had done everything I could. 

“If she did truly kill herself,” I said slowly, “then it was because of you and what you did to her.”

And I hung up.

Connor didn’t call me back, and I was okay with that. I set my phone aside, walked to the mantle, and wrapped my hand around the urn resting there. Unlike everything else, it collected no dust, because I cleaned it religiously. Ava wouldn’t like to be dusty and dirty.

“I did everything I could. I love you so much.”

I stood on my tiptoes to kiss the smooth surface. It was cold, and did not give back. I had lost Ava, and no amount of looking for answers was going to change that. What mattered was that I tried, and I still loved her no matter what. And I knew, deep down, that if Ava did indeed do that to herself, it didn’t come from nowhere. With someone to shoulder the blame, I was lighter. I breathed in deep.

My next phone call was to Maggie, asking if I could take her out to dinner somewhere nice and start again with someone willing to love me, even if I feared what might come to be.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @beelivia


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